


Goes Around

by Ladycat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Verbal Humiliation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thanks. That one’s better than crucio. Too bad everyone thinks it requires magic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goes Around

Percy’s office is roughly the size of a closet. It doesn’t technically have walls, but a few have been conjured up and a few more physically put in place by others. It doesn’t give him privacy so much as cut him off from the rest of the secretaries and assistants, like if he isn’t in their line of sight, than he can’t hear a word they’re saying.

“Bloody hell, did you hear him?” That’s Christina Perkins, an ash-blonde woman of impeccable taste and a voice like chewing gum. She’s swinging her legs as she talks, like always—the _thud thud thud_ is eerily familiar and almost reassuring by now. “Queen of the bloody castle, he is, waltzing around like Crouch even knows his name!”

“What’d he call him this time?” Stefan isn’t exactly dating Christina but he wants to be, it’s clear the way he fawns after every word she speaks. “Oh, yes. _Pendleton_.”

There are snickers and giggles and it’s all Percy can do to stop it. No, not _them_. They’re fools and idiots and Percy knows he’s going to leave them in the dust one day when he’s Minister. No, he can hardly stop from touching himself, robe pulled warm and taut between his legs.

It’s disgustingly vile. Percy’s always known that as far back as Bill beating him about the head and calling him Perfect Princess Percy and telling him he was good for nothing. Percy’s very first orgasm came from that phrase ringing about in his head and it’s no different now.

He hates it. It’s foul and debasing and if Mum or Dad—fools that they are—every found out they’d probably lock him up at Mungo’s. But after so long Percy’s honestly not sure he can even be _erect_ without some kind of humiliating taunt echoing through his ears.

“Oi, you lot!” The voice is rough and painful like the owner’s throat is a mine-field of old wounds, and terrifying enough that Percy goes absolutely rigid. “Get out of here, you two.”

Percy’s so startled that someone’s here after hours that he doesn’t move his hand away as a large figure stumps forward. “M-Mr. Moody!” he stutters.

“Shut up,” Moody barks back, eye rolling around as he scans the rest of the office. “Is Crouch in?”

“M-Mr. Crouch is having early supper at h-home,” Percy stutters. He never stutters, not after Mum gave him so much potion to drink that he burble words for almost two weeks when he was seven. That and Bill and Charlie were finally convinced to stop teasing him about it. “He’ll be—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Moody grumbles, interrupting him. “I know about his schedule, don’t I? Know all about it.”

It’s a curious thing to say but Percy’s more concerned with how obvious his arm has to be, disappearing beneath his desk, and how much more obvious it’ll be when he moves it, to care. He wants Moody gone. He wants him far, far away. The man has always disturbed him and now more than ever. There’s something different about him, crueler and more calculating and Percy’s not sure if he’s noticing because he’s so often the brunt of it or because—

“You’re Arthur Weasley’s boy, aren’t you? The one who’s so eager to help Crouch out.”

A hundred things to say about how he is invaluable to Mr. Crouch, to the entire Ministry, appear fully formed inside Percy’s head. He says none of them.

“You’re a bit of a brown-nosers, yeah? A Weasley weasel, scurrying around at his feet. Bet he’ll stomp on you one day, boy. Bet he’ll finally see you, notice who you are and you’ll be so grateful you’ll let his boot ride hard and fast against that dick you’re still touching.” Moody leans forward, breath fetid and rich with something awful, his grin painful to look at. “Thought I couldn’t see that, did you? Well, you’re wrong, boy. I see everything. And I know how much you want it, eh? How much you want to lick his boot, clean it up good and proper till he digs it into your balls and tells you to come all over it. And you will, won’t you, Percy? You will, because you’re a good lad. The best at your meaningless, useless job—oh, that bothers you. Thickness of cauldron bottoms? Who the bloody hell cares about that? People care about murder! Mayhem! They care about things that threaten their breath.”

Moody leans in even further, his heavy body leaking heat and stench all over Percy. “And you, boy, you’ll be there to clean up their shit. That’s what you are. You deal with the shit and the muck with your useless, meaningless life, and your useless, meaningless job, left behind while your brothers go out and do all the fun things. Leave you sitting alone in your Mum’s old dresses, a fucking doll for them to toss back and forth, a rag to fill up with their come. Because they will, boy. That’s all you’ve ever been good for. A thing to use and abuse, to mock and pity. And you’re such a good boy you’ll let them do it every time, crawling on your knees with your cock aching behind them every. Single. Time.”

The sweaty curve of his forehead brushes against Percy’s. “Come, you insignificant faggot,” he says, and then laughs and laughs while Percy screams.

When Percy finally regains any sense of the world, he finds himself back at his desk, alone on the floor with a mess all over the inside of his robes, his cock so sensitive it hurts every time he breathes. There is no Moody, no Christina or Stefan, no Mr. Crouch.

There is only a note. _Thanks. That one’s better than crucio. Too bad everyone thinks it requires magic._


End file.
